During a standard weekend chore—putting away my clean laundry—I was faced with a dirty reality: the third drawer in my bedroom dresser. It was the drawer where my now ex-boyfriend kept his pajamas, a surplus of I need-something-to-wear-tomorrow outfits and various gifts I had given him, which he felt should stay at my abode. As I cautiously opened the drawer, the small bumblebee hand massager (a Christmas stocking stuffer) peeked up at me through the pile of regulation hospital scrubs, and the memories came buzzing back: the red bandana—a necessity for weekend hikes in the hills, his favorite V-neck T-shirt for sleeping and his arsenol of skincare products. After removing his pile of discards, my memories, I began to shift around the drawers— reassigning things back to their pre-relationship positions. I’ll keep the scrubs, I think. I can wear them to sleep in.
Within the very same dresser, in the top left hand drawer, I stumbled across something that stung far worse than the bumblebee hand massager—a small, burgundy leather box, befitting any one of the baubles Elizabeth Taylor might have on hand. Although it contains no large canary-yellow marquis diamonds to sparkle up a tme, when I open the box it still manages to possess a harsh glare: a mound of rings, painful reminders of failed relationships. Each has held its own label: wedding ring, commitment ring and I-want-everyone-to-know you’re- taken ring. They have all been labeled various things at different times by different men, and perhaps someday, they will have their proper legal place in society. But for now—hidden away in a burgandy leather box at the back of my drawer—they are my Eddies, my Richards and even my Larrys. Like the rings discovered inside a tree, they mark my life, my love.
Eyeing it with trepidation, I open it cautiously, like I’ve been summoned to the coroner‘s office to view a body, to identify the deceased. They are all still there. Identification, it’s a match. Or is it? Sadness, attachment, confusion, relief, euphoria, loss, freedom—I can’t look anymore. I throw the opened box onto the top of the dresser and try to distract myself with the dresser reformation. But as I began to realign the drawers, once again reassigning drawer three as keeper of a large, countless pile of sporadic swimwear purchases, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the rings, all the husbands, all the memories, the status and the meaning. They’re all gone. Over. Finished. Were they ever a match? I wonder.
As I reintroduced my loud surf shorts, and gave my Speedos their miniscule spot at the back of the drawer, I was faced with the irony of the situation: I was once again in the swim. With summer rapidly approaching, I would once again be forced to decide how to suit up for my next dip into the sea of men. While folding, I considered my options.
Although my Speedo accentuates all the right areas, it has brought me the sexually compulsive, or those in need of a lifeguard. And while the festive board shorts have held their own, they too brought with them a certain style of boyfriend. As I lay the embroidered black boxers on top of the pile, I seriously consider sticking to black—devoting myself to a life of religion! But that too has its share of scandal and marital issues! Wading through all the memories as I dutifully replaced each suit to the drawer, I was left with a thought: As gay men, with the suits we put on each day, whether it be Brooks Brothers, bathing or birthday, are the fashion choices we make our destiny and the (wedding) rings we so covet considered our life preservers?
Next came the white surf shorts wrapped with bands of orange and yellow. White?…hmm. And again, I thought of Elizabeth Taylor. Suddenly Last Summer. Maybe it’s time to wear the white one, I thought. Pull out all the stops.
After all, Liz‘s white bathing suit did provide Sebastian an endless array of gentleman callers. Hungry youth. But eventually her inviting, virginal color choice led Liz to another kind of life in white. Mental hospital, straight jacket white! I shoved them in the drawer. Pass. As I pushed the drawer closed, I wondered where to go next? And then I thought, “Have all the suits in my drawer, like my suitors, like my rings, become suddenly last season?” Considerations of a nude beach came to mind—a life devoid of tan lines, a place where everyone is happy to celebrate all aspects of their birthday, to fearlessly expose themselves with each passing year. A place with no restrictions, no assimilation, only freedom, raw diversity embraced.
With the box still out and partially open, there was a defiant glare. The contents begged to be remembered, to be recognized and understood. Perhaps even worn again. Could I do that? I wondered. I knew what to do with the scrubs, but not the rings. I pulled one out—a chunky Tiffany silver band—and placed it on my right ring finger. Never on my left, always my right—like the Europeans, unlike conventional American marriage. It still fits.
Like water, the memories flood in, soaking my brain: a candle-lit birthday, my 40th, at a cosmopolitan restaurant. And then the secrets, the lying. I fling it back into the box and shudder as I close the lid, still feeling confused with how to handle my ringed reminders. I want to wear them, but differently—with pride, to see them as experiences and not mistakes.
Should they be like the rings that mark a tree? I wondered. Lined with grains of truth, marks of aging, evidence of a failed footprint?
Or were they like the Olympic rings, linked together in powerful unison, cues that I still had endurance, stamina and a neverending quest to win? To be “married.” As the first fashionable wave of summer swimwear presents itself, the shop windows have begun taunting me with boisterous signage and seductive displays. The opportunity for schizophrenic tan lines, for men. Ignoring my date with the weights in the gym upstairs, I give in to my addiction and opt for shopping. Suit after suit of colorful and varied choices flank the store walls. After surveying the various options hung across the wall, from the corner of my eye I spot a pair of yellow, orange and white flowered board shorts. The loud print begins screaming at me from across the room. I move in for a closer look. As my hand lunges forward to find my size, it collides with another.“Oh, sorry,” says the husky voice. I smile back over the top of my sunglasses at a salt-and-pepper mane and a pair of sparkly blue eyes—swimming-pool blue. I’m ready to take another dip, I think to myself. “That’s OK,“ I offer back, adjusting so we can both survey the shorts. I think of the rings. Should I try the shorts on or recoil in my bad luck? I hold them up pretending to examine the details. I‘m ready to take another dip, I think again and head for the dressing room to suit up, to dive in, to make one of those perfect rings in the water. Just like the Olympics—where everyone’s watching.
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